I Can't Talk About It
by PeachCheetah
Summary: He had said and thought and lived those words so many times in his life, and every time he had fervently believed in their necessity.


_A/N: November is National Novel Writing Month, which I have always hoped someday to do. However, time limitations and underdeveloped writing skills have made that an impossibility this year, but I was determined to finish this little mini-mini-novel instead. I made it 2 days to spare, and I must confess, I'm quite proud of it. I hope you enjoy it too._

 _A big thanks to TheVelvetDusk, who I gave this to as a prompt way, way back in the summer, and who said "nah, you write it." (Actually, she was considerably more polite and eloquent than that, as we would all imagine.) Thanks for the pep talk TheVelvetDusk, and for all the marvellous examples I've had the pleasure of reading and rereading._

 **Rating:** T for some language.

 **Timepoint:** canon-compliant to the end of 2x10.

I.

"You're leaving again? Already?"

Wyatt sighed as he shoved things into his duffle bag. "Yes. Orders came down ten minutes ago. I've got to be at the airfield in half an hour", he answered without making eye contact.

"Airfield? Aren't you training here?" she asked.

"No," he said shortly, as he grabbed the last of his effects and tugged closed the zipper on the green canvas bag.

"You're supposed to be on leave for three weeks. Is this part of what you just got back -"

Wyatt whirled around impatiently, looking at her for the first time since he came barrelling into their apartment five minutes ago. "Jess, I can't talk about it," he said tersley. He slung his bag over his shoulder and grabbed his phone and military IDs off the bedside table.

"Of course you can't," she said, the sad dejection in her voice long since replaced by a quiet, wounded fury.

Wyatt sighed again, feeling his own anger starting to swell. Anger at her, at himself, at this job, at this mess of a life they'd found themselves in. His eyes found hers once more, his mounting frustration clouding any sympathy he might have shown her for this shitty situation he kept sticking her with.

It hadn't always been this way. When Wyatt first enlisted at 18, Jessica had gone with him, just as eager as he was to get out of their dusty little Texas town and see the world. They'd married young, because the Army liked things 'official', but it seemed terribly romantic to both of them at the time. The next two years included two six-month deployments oversees where Jessica couldn't follow, but they would write, and email, and call when they could. And when he came back to her, safe and unharmed, they would always hide themselves away for as long as his leave would allow, reconnecting with each other and basking in their shared presence. He would tell her about where he'd been, about how the foothills of Afghanistan were oddly similar to the scrubland of West Texas, about the guys in the his unit and the shit they got into when they thought no one was watching, about the people he'd met, the strange but beautiful customs of the locals, the commanding officers who'd taken notice of him, and where he thought he might end up next. He didn't tell her _everything_ \- he couldn't, and he didn't want to, wanting always to protect her from the worst of world he had witnessed over there.

Soon, Wyatt was selected for the Special Forces, which meant more relocation, more training, and more frequent deployments. Jessica followed where she could, and waited when she couldn't, trying to make the best of what they had together.

But with his new unit, most of his missions were Top Secret and he wasn't allowed to talk about where they went, or what he'd seen, or what he did. Wyatt tried to make up for it when he was home, tried to stay focused on what Jessica's life had been while he was away, and distracted both of them with increasingly adventurous vacations. But slowly, steadily, the phrase 'I can't talk about it', wormed its way into their life.

Wyatt made Delta Force at 26, finally putting down the last of the doubts his father had raised in him: that he was stupid, and a screw up, and would never amount to anything. Well, he showed him. He was one of the best now, the elite, and he flung himself into his dangerous new life with all the commitment he thought it deserved.

Unfortunately, this came at the expense of the commitment he knew his marriage deserved.

Years passed, missions came and went, and the words "I can't talk about it" fell from his lips with increasing ease and wedged themselves between Jessica and him. Always, he could justify it. Always, he could foist the blame of their failure to communicate onto the US Army. If it wasn't his fault, then he didn't have to fix it.

Of course, there were stories he _could_ have told her. He couldn't tell her about the mission to Colombia, but he could have told her the story of a night off with Bam-Bam that involved a bottle of rum, a live chicken, and a Spanish word that unfortunately meant something very different in Colombia than in Mexico.

But when he came home, and chuckled in memory at the sight of a different bottle of rum on their shelf, she asked him what was so funny. He shrugged her off with another "I can't talk about it".

He couldn't tell her about the hostage rescue, but he _could_ have told her the Persian fairy tale, told to him by the little old lady tending to his wounded leg on the mat on the dirt floor in her house, her twelve year old granddaughter with striking green eyes providing a remarkable translation.

But when he's reunited with Jessica, and she asked about the scar on his thigh, his casual "I can't talk about it" waves her off, again.

Gradually, the two sides of his life grew separate, and apart. When he was over there, he didn't like to think about home. When he was home, he didn't like to think about over there, and it just became easier not to. Eventually, it became easier not to talk about anything, the phrase "I can't talk about it" becoming a crutch, an excuse, the words themselves expanding between them.

He let the space between them fill with other things. With callus words, and angry accusations. Too much whiskey and jealous thoughts. It was horrible, but it was easier, and it was horrible that it was easier, but he could never find it in him, or in her, to change anything.

Today was no different. Another sudden deployment on another dangerous mission of unknown length or location. He didn't resent the work. He was good at his job and he was damn proud of it.

He also didn't resent Jessica, no matter how much his attitude toward her might say otherwise. She had every right to be worried, to want more, to be included. He really did love her, and he knew she deserved better than what he kept leaving her with.

The two fractured sides of this life didn't fit together anymore.

And right now, he had to leave again.

"Jessica," he said, losing a bit of the edge to his voice and holding her gaze with his own. She watched him expectantly, arms folded tightly across her chest. "I…" he trailed off, not sure what he could say that could help them in this moment.

Weighing his options, he made the easy, horrible choice once again.

"I can't talk about it," he said, more than a little disappointment in his voice as he let his eyes fall to the floor between them. He opened his mouth once again, trying to say more but still, as always, the words weren't there.

Keeping his gaze downcast, he gripped his bag tighter, and silently turned and left.

II.

Wyatt pushed open the door of Mason Industries and made is way across the parking lot. Preoccupied with his own thoughts, he didn't immediately notice the figure leaning against the driver's door of his truck.

At only a few paces away, he finally noticed her. He stopped walking and lifted his eyes to hers. He was surprised to see her here, but not unpleasantly so. For a fleeting moment he indulged himself, and let his gaze simply take in the kind and pretty face he had been so drawn to since their first meeting.

But, he knew Lucy was a woman of purpose, and here she was, waiting for him. A swelling breath of trepidation rose in his chest.

"Hi," she said, smiling gently at him.

"Hey," he replied, attempting to keep his tone even and friendly, resisting the rising urge to flee her and whatever she was here for, as quickly as possible.

"So, they're letting you stay, huh?" she asked, the slightest note of pride colouring her words.

Wyatt nodded slowly. "Looks like it", he replied, unable to contain the smirk that escaped across his face every time Lucy did something he found adorable.

Her smile widened slightly as she held his gaze. He really did like that smile.

Her next breath was almost imperceptibly deeper, as though she was marshaling herself towards something. _Here it comes_ , thought Wyatt.

"So, are _you_ letting you stay?" she asked, attempting to maintain the her casual tone.

Wyatt recognized that this was only the tip of a very loaded question, a deeper conversation, one he definitely _didn't_ want to have. He shrugged offhandedly and avoided her gaze. "I go where I'm ordered, ma'am" he said, taking the final few steps to his truck and swinging his bag into the back.

Lucy didn't budge, matching his feigned casualness with her own and continuing to lean against the driver's door. Wyatt could feel her eyes still on him as he fiddled with his keys, his brain racing through options to move Lucy from her current position. Not all of them polite. _Not all of them appropriate._

"Wyatt," she said, carefully, patiently. "No one ordered you to stay at the Alamo today."

There was a demon that lived somewhere in Wyatt's chest. This thing, this creature, had long ago grown beyond a clutch of guilt, or a weight of sadness. This was a devilish being, a force, that had taken root and fed itself on all of his losses and failures and nightmares. The demon could lie dormant and let Wyatt go about his life, report for duty, complete his training and pass his evaluations. But this demon could also reach its gripping tentacles into his own frayed nerves, clench at his heart, and claw savagely on this inside of this throat. It could whisper half-truths and curses and faults straight into his his swirling mind.

When his demon reared up, fueled by heightened emotions and the promise of fresh guilt, this demon could control him like a puppet.

His demon had been behind the wheel all day.

When he was told this was his last mission with the team, he accepted the news without argument, the demon whispering in his ear that he deserved to be fired, from this and every job, because he failed. Again. Always.

When he found himself back in the oddly familiar setting of preparing for war, his demon crawled inside his own head, swapping visions of reality for equally vivid images of doomed comrades, reminding him constantly of what he had lost.

When Jim Bowie, a dead man from history with no stake in his life, asked if he had done this before, the demon coughed up the hated story of an impossible situation, reveling in Wyatt's own despair and shame.

And when the battle finally erupted all around them, Lucy's pleas for his own safety echoing in his head as loudly as the cannon fire, the demon drained the will to live right out of him. It sat heavily on his heart, demanding that Wyatt lay down to the inevitable violence that had befallen everyone else he cared about.

He was ready to die. He _wanted_ to die. Maybe, in death, he would finally pay his debts, be free of his demon, and be in peace.

But Lucy Preston, Woman of Purpose, wasn't having any of that. And who was he, with his battered, haunted soul, to argue. With a potent combination of soft hands, soft eyes, and soft words, Lucy Preston held his demon at bay just long enough to get his sorry ass out of there.

She didn't try to talk to him as they trekked silently back to the Lifeboat. She didn't ask how he was as he buckled himself in for the bumpy trip home, forgetting, for the first time, to help her with hers. She didn't try to include him in their debrief, while he stood stoically by, waiting for his ax to drop. She certainly didn't consult with him before she stood up for his position on the team. He would have told her to let it go, let _him_ go, that he wasn't worth it. But the mounting emotional turmoil of the day sat tight around his neck, and he continued to say nothing.

Finally, it seemed like she would tolerate his silence no longer. Her delicate frame leaned against his truck door holding him captive, those soft eyes watched him expectantly. He, however, kept his eyes on the pavement.

"I've been told," she said, her endearing know-it-all tone returning to her voice, "that talking about it helps."

"Lucy," he began, his voice trailing away somewhere between exhaustion and exasperation. He rubbed a weary hand across his face, still refusing to meet her gaze.

She waited, watching him still, so much more patient with him than he deserved. The rising tide of guilt, failure, and panic was swelling in his chest again. _You fucked up today,_ the demon hissed in his ear. _You almost lost your whole team, again, and here she is worried about you. You don't deserve this. You don't deserve her. Don't let her in any further or she'll never get out alive._

Wyatt took a deep steadying breath, hampered by the squeezing tension in his throat where his words were being choked by his own pathetic self interest. "Lucy," he began again, his voice lower, less steady. "I can't…" he broke off, shaking his head, the words refusing to go any further.

Lucy shifted her position slightly, standing away from his door and reached out to lay a gentle hand on his shoulder. He thought fleetingly that it was a sign of how much he'd come to like her that he didn't flinch away from the contact.

"I can't imagine," she said, still with that incomprehensible patience, "what you have gone through in your life. And I understand that, even though you say you're over the hump, you still might have other mountains to climb." She paused for a moment, leaning in slightly, hoping to finally catch his eye. When he didn't acquiesce, she pressed on.

"I get that maybe you can't talk about it today, or maybe you can't talk about it to me, but Wyatt," she said, letting her hand slide over the side of his shoulder, "I hope you find a way to talk about it."

She squeezed his shoulder gently as she finally moved away from his truck, away from him, and off into the night. Wyatt stood still where she had left him, considering her words and the weight of her request. As he finally found his feet and his breath, he unlocked his truck and climbed in, the warmth of her touch still tingling in his arm.

III.

" _Whatever is going on between you and Lucy, you need to figure it out, Wyatt, and deal with it."_

Well, that was easier said than done.

Wyatt had finally, _finally_ , started talking, because Lucy was there to listen. It started slowly, in little pieces and anecdotes. He told her the story of his proposal, and how Jessica had wanted a baby boy, and he found that the memories didn't slice into his gut quite so sharply anymore. He discussed the concepts of fate and purpose, _his purpose_ , and he felt a steadying pride start to seep into his bones. He talked about the future, for the first time in five years, and about _possibilities_ , and thought that maybe, just maybe, the shackles around his own heart weren't so permanent after all.

But then she was ripped away from him, and he almost went stark raving mad.

Beyond the sense of failure at losing a protectee, beyond the horribly familiar sense of dread at the disappearance of someone he cared about, he had also lost his newfound tether to equanimity. She had become his outlet, his touchstone. He wouldn't go _too_ far and think that she was going to be able to fix everything wrong with him, but Lucy, with her infinite patience and pretty smile and soul-deep hugs, had been making him better. He _wanted_ to be better, which was quite the change from the past few years. Now, however, he couldn't find his bearings or catch his breath without her.

She did finally come back to him, but she was broken, too. Wyatt didn't want her to descend into a pit as deep as he had gone, so he took it upon himself to talk to her, to get _her_ to talk, as soon as possible, hopeful that they would get better together.

So, they talked. On rickety cots and in a smuggler's hold and by the side of a pool, they talked. They talked about loss and heartbreak, rebellion and redemption. And on that long, glorious drive up the sun-soaked California coast, with her tucked into his side, they talked for hours and hours, about everything and nothing, their pasts and their futures.

He put a stop to all that with one conversation on the phone.

He took full responsibility for the gaping distance between them. He was the idiot who ran off in the middle of a conversation about sleeping arrangements and returned with his wife. But he also felt that the solid wall of unspoken tension going up between them was as much Lucy's doing as his. Every time he tried to talk to her, tried to assuage his own guilt by confessing a truth that didn't want to be hidden, she stopped him with a patient smile and another brick in their wall, and his words never got to see the light of day.

"This is everything that you've wanted, everything you've been hoping for. This is a good thing." _But we were a good thing, too._

"You deserve to finally be happy, Wyatt." _Don't ever think, for a second, that you didn't make me happy._

"Tomorrow. Go, be with Jessica". _I don't want to be with Jessica. I want to be with you._

He didn't blame her in the slightest, but it broke his heart all the same.

Agent Christopher was right, he needed to fix this. But to fix this, he needed Lucy. And Lucy wasn't having it, having _him_ , anymore.

All the progress he had made was slowly undoing itself. His temper was shortening. He was making poor tactical decisions, putting his team at risk. A fresh wave a guilt was creeping under his skin as he felt himself becoming the distant, angry, asshole of a husband Jessica had lived with for most of her marriage. Maybe, he thought despairingly, he just _was_ that guy, in every timeline. Maybe Fate was just leading him back to where he should have stayed in the first place.

Fate, he thought ruefully, a sad sort of smirk forming on his face. That was Lucy's department. Too bad he couldn't ask her about it.

After the raid on Rittenhouse Headquarters, after his reprimand from Agent Christopher, after yet another failed, pathetic attempt to seek out Lucy's company, he put away his gear, showered, and made his way back to his room. Jessica was there, propped up on some pillows in bed.

"Hey," she said, glancing up from her phone and smiling. "How was the mission?"

"Oh, you know," he said, noncommittally. "Mixed bag." He sat down on the mattress beside to her. "Took out some bad guys, probably didn't make too much of a difference, though." He shrugged. These half-victories against Rittenhouse were becoming too routine for his liking. He felt frustrated, like they were just spinning their wheels through history, never catching a glimpse of an end to this madness.

"I heard you were back in Texas," she said, quirking an eyebrow. "Go anywhere familiar?"

Wyatt didn't look at her, instead reaching down to untie his shoes. She thought he had gone with the rest of the team. He'd taken off in such a hurry he hadn't even thought to say goodbye, nevermind fill her in on where he was going. Evidently, no one else had told her either.

And he found, in this moment, as he pried off his shoes one at a time, he couldn't be bothered to correct her.

"Nah, just a lot of old warehouses," he said, shoving his shoes under the cot and flopping unceremoniously back onto the bed.

He felt her eyes on him for another moment as he forced himself to stare vacantly up at the metal ceiling. She was expecting more. More stories about the mission, more questions about her day, more information about when they were getting out of here, more discussion about _them_.

He had no interest in more. The words he had felt bursting in his chest earlier, standing in the hallway with Lucy, had retreated in defeat. He heard Jessica's soft, resigned sigh and felt her turn back to her phone. Gratefully, and with more than a little guilt, he rolled onto his side and tried to go to sleep.

IV

Wyatt stood silently in the shadow of the Lifeboat, of _his_ Lifeboat, watching the woman napping on the couch. Her legs were crossed at the ankles, her feet clad in worn combat boots, propped on the old table. She sat upright but her head tilted back against the stiff cushions in a way that didn't look very comfortable. Nevertheless, she was clearly asleep. Wyatt recognized that skill, the ability to steal a nap anytime, anywhere, as one that was only honed out of necessity. The result of long, dangerous missions, infrequent beds, and uncertain next days.

She looked simultaneously unrecognizable and yet so achingly familiar. The fatigues she wore, the arsenal she carried, the shorter hair that spread out on the cushions behind her, couldn't distract him from the kind, pretty face he'd always been drawn to. In this peaceful, though temporary, state, she was relieved of the secret burdens she'd carried with her off the other Lifeboat, and she looked, still, so much like the other Lucy. _His Lucy_.

If he could even call her that anymore.

Over the ever-present hum of the bunker, he heard footsteps approaching him. Boot-clad footsteps, if he wasn't mistaken. He didn't turn around to look, waiting to see what the other man would do.

"Pretty impressive, isn't she", came his own, low rumbling voice from behind him.

Wyatt nodded slowly in agreement, keeping his eyes on the woman in question. "Yes she is", he replied quietly. As his future self took the final steps to stand next to him, Wyatt added, "I don't think that'll ever _not_ be true."

"Probably not," the older man agreed, the pride clearly visible on his face despite all the whiskers.

Wyatt finally tore his gaze from the couch to look beside him. As strange as it sounded, he had somewhat gotten used to the idea of existing with his future self. His brain, which had long ago stopped raising red flags at the weirdness he encountered in this bizarre job, seemed to accept this exact replica of himself as just another competent teammate.

Well, almost an exact replica. A little older, rather fitter, and very bearded replica.

It was the beard that was catching his attention now.

"I haven't seen that since since the last tour in Syria," Wyatt said, gesturing to his own chin as he spoke.

The man beside him smiled ruefully and rubbed a hand across his own jawline. "Well, you know how it is when you're on the go." He shrugged offhandedly. "Deployment Beard, right?"

Wyatt nodded slowly, recalling briefly the many states his face had gotten into over the years. But something nagged at him now. The beard beside him was not the result of its owner being without the time or the means to deal with it. It was clearly trimmed, cared for, _deliberate._

"That is _not_ a Deployment Beard," Wyatt said, more curious than anything else. "Why… I mean…" he faltered, wondering if this was really any of his business, even though it was, strangely, his own face he was asking about. "I never really liked the beard."

The smile on the older man's face grew a little wider as he continued to rub his chin absently. He seemed to be weighing a decision for a moment before he met Wyatt's gaze. "Well," he said, somewhat conspiratorially, "other people like the beard."

It took Wyatt a moment to realize who these other people might be, but his eye caught the sleeping woman again, and it all came together. Her mere presence seemed to have that effect on him.

"Ah," he said, not entirely sure what to do with this insight. "That is...well...thanks?" he said, looking back at himself.

"No problem," the older man said, clearly amused by Wyatt confusion.

Both sets of blue eyes fell back to the woman on the couch. It felt like a reflex now, coming back to her, seeking her out in any room they were in, and it looked like that wasn't going to change in his future.

"So," said Wyatt, trying to sound as casual and relaxed as the man next to him. "Any other advice?"

He new this was a dangerous question. He was bursting with equal parts curiosity and dread about what lay ahead, knowing all too well how delicate a timeline could play out, how fickle fate could be. Should he ask? Did he want to know? Would he find a way to botch it all no matter what he did?

The older Wyatt turned to face him fully now, the wry smirk gone from his face. He seemed to be searching his younger face for something, weighing his options again.

"My advice", he began carefully, his voice dropping slightly, speaking with a serious tone that mirrored the stern look he fixed on his younger self, "is to never let the words 'I can't talk about it' come out of your mouth again."

For a split second, Wyatt's deeply entrenched emotional instincts kicked in. Defiance, guilt, self-loathing and fear all took a fleeting swipe at his chest. He had said and thought and lived those words so many times in his life, and every time he had fervently believed in their necessity.

 **I** _can't talk about it._

 _I_ **can't** _talk about it._

 _I can't_ **talk** _about it._

But enough was enough. Those words had achieved nothing but the rock bottom he found himself in now. He knew it. And his own self - a seemingly better put together version of himself, even - was confirming it.

Swallowing back the flood of emotions, Wyatt squared his shoulders and turned slightly to face the other man, an air of determination about him, as if to say silently, 'Alright then, teach me more'.

The older Wyatt watched the turmoil flash across his own younger face, remembering, though distantly, how burdensome it had all felt at the time; the weight of everything, mostly self imposed, that had threatened to drown him on so many occasions, and the unrelenting determination to keep it all bottled up. He was so far away from this anguish now that it was almost startling to see it inhabit his own face again.

He wanted to help. Time, and hope, and a lot of hard work, had shown him the way out.

"From here on," the older Wyatt said, now clearly speaking with the confidence of experience, his tone both patient and imploring, "you _have_ to talk, and you _especially_ have to talk to Lucy.

"Tell her everything you're doing, everything your afraid of, everything you want, everything you hope for. Complete, unfailing, unflinching honesty, even when you think she doesn't want to hear it or the truth might hurt her. You know by now how tough she is, she can take it." Wyatt's beard twitched slightly as it hid the smirk underneath. "In fact, the tougher she gets, the more she needs it."

"That's the only way this works," he went on, gesturing vaguely between himself and the sleeping Lucy. His hand came back to the other Wyatt, pointing hard at his chest as he spoke. "It's how you make up for what happened, it's how you fix yourself, it's how heal what's between you, and it's how you keep her safe." He paused on his last word, as though trying to add extra emphasis to that which he clearly held as paramount to everything else in his life.

Wyatt took a deep, fortifying breath as he digested these words. This was hardly anything he didn't already know, but as he was clearly terrible at taking his own self interest to heart, hearing this direction from the impressive man in front of him might finally be the kick in the ass he so badly needed.

This was the way forward. _Talking_ was the way forward. _Lucy_ was the way forward.

Wyatt nodded slowly but determinedly. He would do it, if not for himself, then for her. Always, anything, for her.

The intense moment between the two men broke, and each found his gaze tracking the familiar path back to the sofa. They stood there together, watching, reflecting on two sides of the same journey, one lived, one yet to be lived.

Wyatt felt one more question in his throat, begging to be asked. He thought he knew the answer already, but his worn and battered heart wasn't so quick to find conclusions.

"So," said Wyatt, trying to find that casual tone again, "you two are…", he trailed off, unable to come up with an adequate descriptor for this future pair. He turned halfway back to himself, hoping the other man would fill in the blank.

The smirk was back behind the beard again, as the other Wyatt shook his head. "Oh, no you don't," he said, his voice somewhere between amused and alarmed. He crossed his arms across his chest and looked at the younger man with a knowing eyebrow raised. "I can't talk about it."

The older Wyatt chuckled at the resulting look of exasperated incredulity worn by his past self. "Doctor's orders," he clarified, inclining his head slightly towards the sleeping figure on the couch. Wyatt huffed out a frustrated breath, thwarted again by Lucy's unfailing determination to preserve history and all its imperfections.

 _Some things would never change._

But one thing was clear now, more than ever. The Wyatt next to him, just like himself, and probably like every Wyatt for the rest of time, wanted what Lucy wanted. The Wyatt next to him had figured out how to do that, how to work with her, and how to be with her.

Wyatt would be damned if he didn't try with everything he had to do the same.

"Thank you" he said to his older self, facing him again and extending his hand.

"You're welcome," he replied, grasping the proffered hand firmly and shaking it.

With a smile and a slight shake of his head at the absurdity of this whole encounter, Wyatt turned to leave. He quietly passed the sleeping woman on the couch before heading down the hall, thinking of a shower, some sleep, but maybe first of all, to talk to Lucy.

Wyatt watched his younger self make his way down the hall and around the corner before turning his eyes to the unmoving form on the couch. He stood there, as still and silent as she, reflecting on how much had changed for both of them since they lived here, now, in this time. His eyes traveled over her form, now so endearingly familiar to him, as he listened to her steady breathing, always audible to his attuned ears, even over the ever present hum of the bunker.

Finally, with his mouth lifting to another smirk, he said: "I know you're not sleeping".

"I know you know", she replied without opening her eyes, her voice both tender and assured.

His beard twitched again as his smirk widened. He quietly crossed the distance between them and sat next to her on the couch. Their bodies moved in practiced synchronization, legs outstretched with matching boots side-by-side, torsos leaning in to balance each others' weight, and heads tucked perfectly into each other, hers to the crook of his neck, his to her dark brown hair. He inhaled her deeply. She smelled once again of the government issued soap they used in this place, but somehow, beneath that, she smelled like _Lucy_. He breathed her in again, filling himself up on the comfort of her mere presence.

"Did I tell him too much?" he murmured against the crown of her head.

"No," she said softly, reaching for his hand and lacing her fingers with his. "We agreed on a 'need-to-know' basis before we came here". She snuggled a little further into him and he pressed a soft kiss into her hair. "He needed to know that," she said smiling. "He needed hope."

fin.


End file.
